


You can tell a lot about a man by his hands.

by whimsicalmuse



Category: The Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-08-23
Updated: 2004-08-23
Packaged: 2018-08-07 20:38:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7728910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whimsicalmuse/pseuds/whimsicalmuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bill muses on Dom's hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You can tell a lot about a man by his hands.

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Shirasade: this story was originally archived at the [Monaboyd.net Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Monaboyd.net), which was closed in September 2014 due to software issues and a lack of new submissions for several years. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in October 2014. I e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact me using the e-mail address on the [Monaboyd.net Archive collection profile](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Monaboyd_Archive/profile).
> 
> \---
> 
> A/N: Well, more fic duties being churned out. This one is for domhobbitzes. Her request was, _Monaboyd. Dommie hands.Casual, best mates, sometimes more, smut with funny banter between friends (the funny doesn't have to be during the smut).That okay?_  
>  Well shit, I guess two outta three ain't bad. Not much by way of humor, but it does feature the man's hands. Written in 20 mins, so no beta and ya. Enjoy. Not much longer than a drabble.

 

 

My gram used to say you could tell a great deal about a man by his hands, and I was never inclined to agree. I saw lawyers with thick short stubby fingers, and nails bitten clean down to the quick, which, according to gram would be more fitting to a foreman, or maybe a mechanic. I met tattoo artists with even clean nails, and smooth supple palms, more fitting for a surgeon perhaps, or maybe even a writer. They were snap shots in my mind, different hands that should have belonged to different people, and by the time I flew over to New Zealand, I was quite certain that the ole gram had perhaps been wrong for once.

Then I met Dom.

His hands were like vines, supple, flexible, _strong_. His fingers were always a gage of his mood, crawling about his belt buckle or fingering his hair when he was excited. When pensive, his fingers would wrap around each other, cling to each other, like the very thoughts that were swirling through his mind.

His hands even looked like Dom, well, in a hand sort of way. They were simply beautiful, and I’m not one to pass that term around lightly, especially when talking about a bloke. But they were. His nails were even, though, not always clean, and you could always tell his latest pet project by whatever color of pen ink, polish, or in some cases white out, was smeared across the nail. His fingers were long, and thin, and the tops of his hands were not corded with angry green veins like my own, no, his hands never had to work like mine.

Yet, lest I should mistake his hands for being a pushover, they always would prove just how clever, and _strong_ they were at the most inopportune times. His fingers would caress my inner wrist idly, while Pete would scream at us for being late again. The palms of his hands would burn my neck when I would be doubled over the toilet emptying the contents of my stomach as punishment for another rowdy night on the town. Those fingers would bite into his pale palms, when his frustration and anger would mount, and some times his knuckles even be scraped, from the force of his blow to the walls of the trailer, or whatever surface the thought would suffice at the time. His wrist tasted sweet and salty, his pulse was always strong, almost _audible_ when quiet and the flood of the life encased in the translucent skin paired with the sweaty tang of leather or whatever cuff he wore would sometimes make me dizzy.

The tops of his hands, baby soft and firm, would press into my abdomen gently, on fuzzy afternoons on the couch, when we had only a beer and a good movie for company. The vice of his fingers would curl into around me, while the other hand made sure to slither into my mouth, hot and dry, and tease my tongue into wetting them, as preparation for the times when we were too tired, too impatient, to prepare ourselves properly. Those hands would clamp on my thighs, the even nails digging deep in my skin, and then flutter like a gossamer butterfly across my chest and down my sides while he sighed. And when our bodies were spent, and sleep would numb us, it would be those hands that settled on my chest, long fingers tickling the dip of my throat, feeling my pulse thrum clear through my skin.

As my eyes would get sticky and my limbs nice and tingly, I would take those hands into my own and plant a soft wet kiss on them, as a silent thank-you. And every time I would think back to my gram, and her philosophy on men, and I would concur that yes, you can indeed tell a lot about a man by their hands. Especially when that man was Dominic.


End file.
